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Bored out of his mind, Dylan reached for the remote resting on the armrest and turned off the TV without a second thought. He had no interest in sitting through another round of the nightly news' commercial breaks.
''A raffle? Seriously? What a joke!''
To him, luck was nothing but a cheap illusion. Life had already taught him the hard way that success only came to those who fought tooth and nail for it.
Grumbling, he pushed himself up from the couch and shuffled toward the bathroom at the back of the house, scratching the thick, wild beard that had taken over his chin. His destination: the mirror above the sink.
Despite his usual indifference toward most things, Dylan had always been grateful to his parents for the house they left him. It was modest, smaller than others in the neighborhood, but built with care to meet a family's basic needs.
With real estate prices sky-high and his sad excuse for a paycheck, renting a place like this would have been a pipe dream: two bedrooms, a bathroom, a decent kitchen, a cozy living room, and a tiny backyard, perfect for hanging laundry—if he ever bothered to do it on time.
His father had always found it lacking, though. The old man used to moan about not having enough space to grow fruit trees or raise chickens and ducks; dreams Dylan had never fully understood.
After a few moments, when he finally faced his reflection, Dylan scowled, lips pressed into a grimace.
"Yeah... this isn't good."
In silence, he stared himself down, hating what he saw. Once upon a time, he had been healthy, vibrant, and full of hope. No wonder his parents kept so many pictures of him from back then. Now, looking at what he had become... It was a punch to the gut.
His skin was pale; sure, today's experience played a role, but most of his problems ran deeper than a bad day.
Messy hair streaked with gray that had shown up way too early. A beard that looked like something you'd pull out of a drain, wild and unkempt. Dark circles carved under lifeless eyes. Wrinkles on a forehead that shouldn't be that worn yet. And the icing on the cake: his obese body was impossible to hide, with bloated cheeks and greasy skin completing the depressing picture.
"Goddamn it..."
He cursed under his breath, pressing a hand against his left chest, which felt embarrassingly swollen for a man like him.
Then, like a flipped switch, his heart began to race: that telltale sign of the anxiety gnawing at him from the inside out. It wasn't fear of sickness or some future diagnosis that haunted him. It was the grim realization that he wasn't remotely ready to face what was coming. Not like this.
For a split second, he considered going for a run around the neighborhood, but quickly tossed that idea out when he remembered how dangerous it was to wander the streets this late at night.
Shaking his head, he tried to focus on the memories he'd lost. His appearance wasn't part of those missing pieces; he knew damn well how he looked and how others saw him. But standing there, staring himself down, hit harder than expected.
After all, he wasn't the type to check himself out in the mirror after a shower... or, more accurately, his self-esteem was too shattered to bother. It had cracked the day he realized his college degree was worth less than toilet paper.
'Five years of experience? I just graduated last month, for crying out loud!' He had screamed those words—drunk as hell—after getting shot down in his first interview.
That was the harsh reality that most fresh grads were facing these days. A brutal slap in the face, enough to break even the toughest soul...
Of course, Dylan knew that wasn't a good enough excuse for the way he'd been living all these years. His parents supported him, so he could've easily taken an unpaid internship or some garbage minimum-wage job. But his stubborn pride, his need for independence, had left him here.
"Looking back, it hasn't been all bad," he muttered, a note of melancholy in his voice.
Compared to what he endured in that other world, a stressful but stable job, hot meals, and a soft bed felt like a dream.
At least, for now.
"This can't go on."
With a grunt of determination, Dylan reached out and opened the little cabinet hidden behind the mirror. Inside sat the old razor his dad had left behind.
This one was in bad shape, caked in dust and cobwebs clinging to its edges. Thankfully, it wasn't rusted. So, after giving it a good rinse and sharpening it against the sink's ceramic edge, he set to work.
He grabbed a cheap bar of soap, rubbed it across his face, and worked up a thick foam before gripping the razor. Primitive, sure, but he didn't have any fancy grooming kits lying around. In fact, he rarely shaved himself, preferring to pay at the barber just to avoid the hassle.
'Pathetic,' he mocked himself, fully aware of his bad habits.
If something as simple as shaving seemed bothersome to do, he really couldn't argue with his mom's scolding during her rare visits.
But that was about to change. Dylan had made up his mind. He was going to do something productive with his Sunday: shopping. With the money he'd managed to squirrel away over the years, he could pick up some hair gel, maybe even a set of dumbbells. Later, he'd visit his parents; he hadn't seen them in months. He missed his mom's cooking more than he'd admit.
"No! Stop it, dumbass! Argh!"
A sudden jolt of frustration made him slam a fist against the wall. The blade slipped between his fingers, causing a small cut between his thumb and forefinger. The sharp sting yanked a hiss of pain from his lips, but also snapped him out of his useless daydream.
"What the hell am I doing? I don't have time to play house," he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose as if that could help him think straight.
He wanted to see his parents. He talked to them on the phone often enough, but actually visiting? The shame of not living up to their hopes kept him away.
Besides, in the other world, they'd been dead for years.
He missed them. He really missed them. Part of him longed to hug them, to cry in their arms like a child. But he couldn't afford that comfort. Not now.
The relocation loomed on the horizon. Winter, in late December. That left him less than 150 days to prepare.
"Or sooner, if my being here messes up the timeline..."
That thought chilled him to the bone. As crazy as it sounded, traveling to the past could've already set something terrible in motion.
'This was gonna be hell.'
Five months might sound like a long time, but when you're trying to pull off a miracle? It's nowhere near enough. Just shedding his extra weight could take all that time, let alone gaining muscle or teaching his body how to fight.
He didn't even know what his end goal was. What should he be preparing for? In fantasy stories, heroes fought tooth and nail to save the world. But Dylan? He wasn't that guy.
'Risk my neck for a bunch of strangers? Yeah, hard pass.' The mere thought made him snort in bitter amusement.
Even back then—or rather, in the future—he never fought for some noble cause like saving humanity. He fought for the people he loved. Of course, sometimes he'd step in to help strangers, but that was just because he couldn't stomach watching them die in front of him.
He still had a tiny spark of empathy left. But if tragedy struck far from his sight? Well, he couldn't care less
'Saving everyone? A stupid goal.' Way beyond his reach, and he knew it.
"Forget saving the world. Protecting the people I care about will be enough… Which means I need to be stronger than ever."
Even if he dragged his loved ones off to some hidden island, there was no guarantee they'd be safe forever. Without real power, they'd be doomed.
'Words couldn't mend a world drowning in hate...'
Once he finished shaving, the sting and itch set in right away. Groaning, he stepped into the shower to wash away the loose hairs and grime; no way was he dragging that mess into bed.
Fifteen minutes later, he grabbed the towel by the door and dried off as he headed to his bedroom.
On his way, he turned off the lights in the living room and the kitchen. When he reached his destination, his fingers brushed against the fan placed in the corner, but the idea of turning it on seemed unwise. The cool breeze from the machine could give him a cold, and that was the last thing he needed. Instead, he chose to embrace the lovely heat of the night, trusting that the recent shower would help him deal with it.
Then, he turned off the ceiling light, lay down on the bed, and pushed the covers aside, with no intention of using them.
Before sleep claimed him after such a rough day, he reflected:
'I feel kinda bad for my boss... the guy's been good to me all these years, but this routine is killing me. Guess it's time to quit. This weekend, for sure.'
And with that, Dylan drifted off to sleep, cradled by the silence of the night.